For the love of a Princess
by Lord Sopping
Summary: What if you were given the chance to go back and meet your favorite historical person? And what if you could change history by warning them of mistakes they would make in the future? (Sorry it took so long for the latest update. Had an accident back in January and am only just getting back on my feet.)
1. Chapter 1

For the Love of a Princess Part One By D.E. Brynelsen

**© 2012**

After checking the time, Bryson snapped shut the antique pocket watch that had been among the clothes and other items that Mr. Rourke had sent to their bungalow that morning, and tucked it into a vest pocket of the white tropical suit he wore. Looking in the mirror, he set the wide broad brimmed Panama hat that was part of the outfit on his head. He and his daughter Phoebe were here on Fantasy Island as part of her birthday gift to him; namely being able to travel back in time and meet the woman who had fascinated him since his college days. The gift was not a cheap one, given what he had heard about Rourke and what he and his staff were capable of when it came to fulfilling the fantasies of his guests. Of course the steep price asked was no matter given that two years previously Bryson had learned he was the last surviving direct heir to an old and quite wealthy New England family. Seemingly overnight, he and his daughter had gone from just getting by in their small suburban house outside Chicago to living in the height of luxury in a huge stone manor house on a private island off the coast of Maine. The house was filled with antiques, something that Phoebe's mother would have relished. A pang of sadness came to Bryson's heart as he recalled his late wife, killed by a drunk driver nearly seven years ago. She had so loved to visit swap meets or antique shops, purchasing furniture or assorted bric-a-brac to furnish their home with, she would have been in heaven upon seeing the _Castle_ and its contents.

"Dad?" Phoebe swept into the room in a whisper of petticoats. Like him, she was in period attire, a white linen shirtwaist with a high lace collar and puffed leg-o-mutton sleeves, a gray skirt that came to her ankles revealing polished black high laced patent leather boots, and a straw "Boater" atop her brown hair which was set in a style proper for a young lady of the early 20th century, as opposed to her usual way of wearing it, tied back in a pony tail. Bryson had to smile at how _ladylike_ the clothes made her look. Since the death of her mother, he'd allowed her to become somewhat of a tomboy, as she wore her preferred jeans and sweatshirts while she helped him work on the vintage Cessna that had once belonged to his own father. Working together on the plane had proven therapeutic in the months and years after his wife's death, father and daughter forming a deep bond in the process as well as a mindset of _you and me against the world. _Like him, Phoebe loved to fly, and under his tutelage, had been a qualified pilot since the age of fourteen. Now that she was sixteen, she wanted to make that official as soon as they returned home to Maine, and even had her eye on a battered old Stearman biplane that she hoped to purchase in order to become a crop duster of all things.

"You look lovely." Bryson smiled as his daughter did a pirouette for his inspection. "Almost like a girl even." He teased.

"Dad!" she giggled as she hugged him. "This corset does take some getting used to however," she said as she ran her hands down her sides. "Hard to believe women actually wore them."

"It was the price of fashion." He grinned, "You should have seen your Grandma Marie's girdle!"

There was a knock at the door. Phoebe went to answer it and admitted Mr. Rourke and his diminutive assistant. Both were in matching white suits that were immaculate despite the heat and humidity.

"If you are both ready, the carriage is waiting to take you down to the harbor." Rourke said evenly, his voice tinged with an accent that hinted at a Latin origin.

"Mademoiselle?" Tattoo said as he produced a ladies lace trimmed parasol and presented it to Phoebe with a courtly bow. "To protect your lovely completion."

"Thank you." Phoebe smiled as she bent over to place a kiss on his cheek causing him to blush.

"These are your press credentials." Rourke said as he handed over a pair of documents to Bryson. "They identify you as a correspondent for the Chicago Daily Telegraph. Is the camera satisfactory?"

"Very." Bryson replied nodding towards the large leather case containing a model 1903 Kodak along with extra photographic plates and other equipment.

"Then we should be off. The _Manchuria _will be dropping anchor shortly." Porters appeared to gather up the Bryson's luggage as Rourke and Tattoo escorted them to an open topped brougham. Once they were seated, Phoebe opened her parasol and the carriage rolled off towards the waterfront.

Once there, the group found a massive welcoming celebration awaiting the arrival of the passengers from the large steamship that had just come to anchor in the harbor. There were well over a thousand people by Bryson's estimation, both white and pacific islanders, all in proper circa 1905 dress. A large floral banner spanned the landing pier, the word _welcome_ spelled out in white native flowers, while another banner, made of canvas, bore the words _Welcome to Miss Roosevelt and her party. _There was a reviewing stand with dignitaries, and a brass band awaited the signal to start playing. Bryson couldn't imagine what it cost Rourke to set all this up, to costume and train all these people. Even the ship lying at anchor was a spot on duplicate of the Pacific Mail Company's _Manchuria_, the actual one having been scrapped sometime in the 1930's according to his research.

A tender had gone out to the ship and was now returning, the band striking up "_It'll be a hot time in the old town tonight"_ as it approached the pier. Once it had docked, the tender began to discharge its passengers. There was William Taft, or at least a very accurate depiction of the former President and Supreme Court Justice. And on his arm, dressed in a white linen duster coat and wide brimmed floral decorated hat was the woman who had captured his soul since he had first gazed upon her image while researching a paper on her Presidential father, Miss. Alice Lee Roosevelt. Behind the pair there was another man, in his thirties, dressed in a white suit and straw hat with a thin moustache. Nicolas Longworth, Congressman from Ohio and Miss Roosevelt's love interest.

_"You bastard, you didn't deserve her!"_ Bryson thought to himself as he recalled all he had read about Longworth's philandering ways.

"Dad, they're coming this way." Phoebe was saying beside him. "She's even more beautiful then the pictures you showed me."

"Yes, they made an excellent choice in an actress to portray her." He nodded. "He turned to convey his congratulations to Mr. Rourke, only to discover he and Tattoo had vanished. Turning back Bryson felt something hit his shoe. Looking down he saw a beaded ladies clutch bag lying at his feet. He bent down to retrieve it; a gloved female hand reached for it as well and briefly touched his. He looked up, straight into the enchanting eyes of Theodore Roosevelt's daughter. They rose up together, his eyes never straying from hers.

"Thank you," Miss Roosevelt said as he returned her purse to her. "Mr.?"

"Nathaniel Bryson." He replied as he doffed his hat. "I'm with the Chicago Daily Telegraph. This is my Daughter Phoebe." The two young women exchanged pleasantries before Miss Roosevelt returned her attention to him. "Will you both be joining us for the trip to Japan?" she asked.

"Yes, that is why my paper sent me." Bryson replied as he thought about how this must be how Christopher Reeve's character felt in that movie with Jane Seymour.

"My father has wanted to meet you for the longest time." Phoebe said brightly.

"Is that so?" Miss Roosevelt asked.

"Yes," Bryson replied as he bowed and kissed her hand, aware of Longworth's burning gaze. "And I've come such a long way in order to do so."

_**To be continued**_

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	2. Chapter 2

For the love of a Princess Pt 2

_**By: D.E. Brynelsen**_

_**©2012**_

"Isn't your Mother making the trip with you and your father?" Alice Roosevelt asked as she and Phoebe walked along the deck, their parasols open to shield them from the tropical sun. Fantasy Island was slowly receding towards the horizon as the _Manchuria_ steamed out into the open sea towards Japan, several days journey ahead.

"My mother died when I was nine years old," Phoebe replied, "She was killed in an accident."

"And it's been just you and your father since?"

"Yes." Phoebe nodded.

"I never knew my mother," Alice said looking at the deck, "She died shortly after I was born. My father didn't even want to be around me, he gave me to my Aunt Bamie to be raised while he ran out west to be a cowboy. And when he came back he refused to tell me about her, or allow her name to be spoken in our house. All I have of her's is her name." The pair stopped as Alice took Phoebe's hand and looked into her eyes. "Your father, does he speak to you of your mother?"

"All the time," Phoebe replied, "He says that's how you keep someone you love near to you even after they're gone. There are several pictures of her in our home, and he carries one with him always in a small locket."

"You're very lucky." Alice said, almost wistfully. "I take it your father never considered taking another wife?"

"No, not ever. He couldn't imagine being in love with anyone else but my mother, and in time we both realized that having each other was all we needed, that it was us together against the rest of the world."

"So you do things together?"

"Yes, we've been to just about every part of the world on assignments for the assorted magazine's he's written for, he's taught me how to fly,"

Alice's eyes widened. "Fly, as in an airplane?"

"Yes, we have a Model 140 Cessna." Phoebe replied.

Alice tilted her head to one side, curiosity brimming in her eyes. "Tell me, is that made by the Wrights, or Mr. Curtiss' company?"

"I've heard of attention to detail," Bryson thought to himself as he gazed at the gang of stokers feeding shovelfuls of coal into the fiery mouths of the massive boilers that provided the steam that drove the throbbing engines that propelled the _Manchuria_ through the waves, "_But this is ridiculous!" _Invited on a tour of the ship, he'd expected to find more modern engines in her bowels, radar and other modern navigation aids on her bridge. But he'd found none of those things so far, it was if he really was aboard the actual _S.S, Manchuria_ in the summer of 1905, taking part in the Taft diplomatic junket to the Far East. _"I have got to talk to my editor when we get home,"_ he told himself mentally, _"See about a possible multi-part series about Roarke and his entire operation."_

A hand clapped onto his arm and he was spun around to find himself looking in the face of Nick Longworth, or rather, down at his face, seeing as he was about a foot taller then the other man.

"A friendly word of advice," Longworth sneered, "Stay away from Miss. Roosevelt! She's already spoken for."

Bryson folded his arms, which were thick with muscle. During his high school and college football careers, he'd earned the nickname of _The Bear_, and like a grizzly it would be a small matter for him to take apart the smug little rich boy from Ohio, who had probably never worked an honest day in his life, having everything handed to him on a silver platter. He'd come to despise Longworth through his research on the lives of Miss Roosevelt and her father, and having this facsimile here in front of him only reinforced his opinion.

"Well, that is going to prove difficult," Bryson said evenly as he took a step forward, his bulk causing Longworth to back up involuntarily, "Seeing as I was sent here to cover this trip and her, so why don't we agree we can't stand one another and leave it at that?" Longworth's back was against the railing; he was actually shaking. "Or would you care to try your luck by throwing down on me, and we do an experiment on just how many productive BTU's that carcass of yours can put out hmm?"

"Is there a problem here?" Will Taft came down the catwalk, the metal actually groaning under the weight of his considerable bulk. He was sweating from the heat in the boiler room and dabbed at his face and neck with his handkerchief as he neared Bryson and Longworth.

"No problem," Bryson responded, "Just a, misunderstanding." He looked at Longworth, his eyes holding a challenge.

"Well, I'm glad to hear it," Taft chuckled, "We are going to be spending a lot of time together on this trip, best we do so with a minimum of fuss." He took Bryson's arm and led him away from Longworth. "It's best not to antagonize Nick, he can get rather possessive about Alice, that's why he came on this trip, to keep an eye on her, and fend off any other potential suitors." He said after they were a safe distance.

"And how does she feel about him?" Bryson asked.

"She loves him, or at least she believes she does."

"And what about him? Is it love, or does he just see her as a means to further his political career?"

"I'd have to concede your point." Taft nodded. "Nick does have a reputation as a ladies man, but he and Alice's father were both Harvard men, and belonged to the same secret society, which is why Teddy feels that he'd be a good match for Alice, but I have my doubts, mostly because of the womanizing I mentioned before." The two men continued to talk as they made their way topside where they encountered Phoebe and Alice laughing together.

"Having a corset on sort of impedes things, but this should give you the general idea." Phoebe was saying as her father and Taft came out on deck. She then did a brief sinuous harem dance to the delight of her companion.

"Phoebe! That is absolutely scandalous!" Alice squealed, "You simply must teach me how to do that!"

"Alice seems to have found a kindred spirit in your daughter." Taft smiled, "Which reminds me; several of the ladies have asked me to inquire about her sharing a cabin with one of them, seeing as your own is somewhat cramped for the two of you."

"We've been in tighter quarters." Bryson replied, "We'll manage, but I'll ask her none the same."

"Dad, I don't think this is some elaborate recreation." Phoebe said later as she sat on her bunk in their cabin, "This might sound crazy, but I think we're actually back in time!"

"I've been having the same thought myself." Bryson replied as he examined the camera that had been provided him, "I was given a tour of the ship, and it's period accurate down to the last rivet. It would have cost a ton of money to build something like that, just for one person's fantasy, and required a major shipyard to build it in. What was your first clue?"

"Well, I let it slip to Alice that you had taught me to fly, and told her what kind of plane we had, and she asked me whether it had been built by the Wright brothers or Glenn Curtiss. And she knows things only she would have known, information that would have required a lot of research to discover."

"Mr. Roarke did mention that he had a large and experienced research staff."

"Dad, I'm talking about things that were never written down, personal things, like when she went to New Camelot Island and stayed with your Great Granddad's family at the castle. She mentioned an incident that was only recorded in Great Aunt Cathleen's diary, which had been gathering dust in the library until I discovered it. And another thing, you know how I nearly passed out a couple times until I got the hang of breathing in this corset, well Alice wears hers as if she has all her life."

"Well, if what you say is true, that we are somehow back in the year 1905, aboard the _Manchuria_, there would be some trace of our presence in the historical record." Bryson went to his valise, dug out the books he'd brought along to see just how accurate Roarke and his people made what up to now he had thought to be a recreation of the Far East Tour. He flipped open _Crowded Hours_, Alice Roosevelt's autobiography that she'd written in the 1930's and paged through it to find the passage he wanted. He read it once, then again, just to be sure he'd read it correctly.

"_There was really not much difference between swimming in a bathing suit or a linen skirt and shirtwaist, and of course Phoebe and I left our shoes, watches, and other things the water could hurt in the care of onlookers."_

"Dad, what is it?" Phoebe asked as her father snapped the book shut, his mind racing with the implication of what he had just read. He knew _Crowded Hours_ almost by heart, and until this moment, that passage had read differently. "Can I see?" his daughter asked as she rose from the bunk and came over to him.

"Not just yet Pheebs," he replied as he put the book back into his valise, "There's something I want to test first." The incident described would take place in a few days; he'd have his answer then.

The days that followed passed without incident. There were costume parties, lectures about the countries the passengers were going to visit, other social events as Bryson and his daughter got to know their fellow passengers or acted out their roles of covering the trip for the newspapers. After stressing that is was essential that she not look in the books he'd brought until he said she could, Bryson took the extra precaution of sealing them to detect any peeking on her part. Finally the morning he'd awaited arrived. It was hot and humid, just as he knew it would be, walking out on deck, he saw crewmembers finishing up the canvas swimming tank they'd rigged in a forward cargo hold. He saw Alice standing with Nick Longworth at the railing overlooking the tank. "Nick, if you'll take a plunge into that tank dressed as you are, then I'll do likewise." Alice was saying as Bryson and his daughter approached. Longworth shook his head vigorously, to which Alice added laughing, "Well if you won't dare, I will!" She unpinned her watch from her blouse, kicked off her shoes, and leapt into the water with a small scream, coming up a moment later amidst her ballooning skirts. She began to swim about the tank as a crowd gathered. "Now will you take my dare?" she called up to Longworth who stood open mouthed at the rail. "Phoebe, how about you?" she called out, "You'll take a plunge dressed as you are won't you?"

As if he was watching a movie he'd seen before, Bryson stood as his daughter handed him her own watch and shoes before going to the rail where she did a backwards somersault ending in a cannonball into the tank. Coming up, she and Alice laughed as they splashed each other or swam about the pool as their skirts billowed and swirled about their waists.

"Aren't you going to do something?" a lady was asking him.

"Not really, it is a hot day," Bryson smiled as he snapped pictures with his camera. "And it's not like she hasn't done something like this before."

"I can well imagine." The woman sniffed, "I understand that you are a widower Mr. Bryson, that you attempted to raise your daughter on your own after your wife's death, but perhaps you should have considered seeking a woman's hand to aid you, so she might not have turned out so wild."

"Hey Dad, come in with us!" Phoebe was shouting, "The water is wonderful!"

"You too Nicolas Longworth," Alice added, "Stop being so stuck up for once, and have some fun!"

Bryson looked over at Longworth who looked back at him, both men wordlessly issuing the challenge to take up the dare.

"I need a drink." Longworth said finally as he turned from the rail.

"I'll go with you." Bryson responded. His theory was already playing out; Phoebe had joined Alice in the pool, just as the revised passage in the book had predicted. Now another change was taking place in Longworth not staying to coax Alice out of the pool as the historic record showed. What other changes were being made as a consequence of he and Phoebe being here, could he actually manipulate and alter the past if he so chose? As he pondered this, a hearty Irish whoop came from a man who had jumped into the pool to join Alice and Phoebe in their swim. The woman who had been talking with him about Phoebe gave out a scream as she was bumped from behind, causing her to lose her balance and tumble into the pool. "I know how to mix something that will really knock you on your ass," Bryson said clapping a hand on Longworth's shoulder, "Let's go see if they have what I'll need behind the bar." As the two men headed for the ship's lounge, neither noticed the strangely colored cloud that was forming in the distance…

To Be Continued

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	3. Chapter 3

For the Love of a Princess Part 3

_**By: D.E. Brynelsen**_

_**© 2012**_

"Storm rolling in Boss," Tattoo said as he came down the winding stairs from the bell tower, "Biggest I've seen."

"Yes," Roarke answered absently as he paged idly through the large folder of documents he'd had sent over from the research department. The folder contained old photographs and newspaper clippings, the latter being what he was interested in at the moment. He pulled out the yellowed front page of a Washington D.C. paper dating from the early months of the year 1906 and read the headline:

Miss Roosevelt and newspaperman to wed in gala White House ceremony

"Trouble Boss?" Tattoo asked.

"I don't know yet." Roarke answered. He had to admit that this was a first, despite all his years of fulfilling people's most ardent fantasies. In the past, when he'd sent a guest to a chosen historical era, the effect of their being there was minimal; either by his "pulling the plug" before they damaged the timeline, or history itself smoothing out any ripples they may have caused. But Mr. Bryson and his daughter were different in that they were somehow making major alterations to history and that was no doubt the reason for the strange and extreme weather front that had suddenly appeared. Someone had once said nature did not like to be tampered with; it seemed this was doubly true for the space-time continuum. Roarke looked out a window at the angry clouds rolling towards the island. "Tread lightly Mr. Bryson," he said softly, "For the good of us all."

"I think I've had enough," Nick Longworth slurred as he gripped the bar with both hands, "It feels as if the whole ship is bouncing around, more then usual."

"You might be right," Bryson slurred back, as drunk if not more so then his companion. "Everything is going bouncy-bouncy!" He looked at the assorted bottles of liquor and fruit juices he'd used to make up a batch of _Jungle Juice_, the name his college frat brothers had coined for the concoction he and Longworth had imbibed. The congressman from Ohio was not such a bad sort once he had a snootful in him, and they'd actually become friends of a sort. "So tell me Nicky, before they find us both sprawled on the deck, what is the real reason you want to marry Alice?"

"Isn't it obvious? She's the daughter of the President, can you imagine what that can do for my political career?" Longworth drained the last of his drink. "With her father's influence, I could become Speaker of the House, or something even higher."

If he'd been sober, Bryson might have crowed with triumph. In his current state, his brain had enough to do in just keeping his feet under him. "And what does she think of your, shall we say, side pursuits?" He asked.

"If she knows about them, she hasn't said a word." Longworth giggled a moment, and then beckoned Bryson to lean closer. "Besides, she has a few side pursuits of her own if you take my meaning. "

"Like what?"

"You've heard the story about her undressing to her underwear at a party have you not?"

"Yes, but it was just something dreamed up by one of my colleagues to sell papers as I'm told."

Longworth shook his head. "That was her father's doing, it really happened, but he was able to use his influence to hush it all up. Alice herself told me. And that's not all, I have it on good authority that she is, shall we say, on rather intimate terms with some of her female acquaintances, and quite possibly no longer an _innocent_ maiden." A large drunken grin crossed Longworth's features causing rage to well up in Bryson despite his own inebriation. His hands sprang across the bar to throttle Longworth, but he was stopped when the room suddenly tilted nearly ninety degrees before righting itself. Tables, chairs, and anything else not tied down went crashing across the deck as an alarm bell sounded.

A member of the crew rushed in. "Gentlemen, I must ask you to go to your cabins and put on your life vests." He said briskly.

"What's going on?" Longworth demanded, adrenaline making for an excellent sobering agent.

"A large storm came out of nowhere. We've been caught in the middle of it."

"There was no mention of a storm," Bryson began to say, then something else demanded his attention. "Oh God! Phoebe!"

"Your daughter is safe Sir," the crewman responded. "The Captain ordered all passengers to their cabins the moment the storm came upon us. She was in the company of Miss Roosevelt and some other ladies."

"I have to find her." Bryson sprinted from the lounge with Longworth on his heels. The two men had to grab onto whatever was handy to make their way as the ship was rising and pitching on the turbulent seas and outside the portholes strange lightning flashed across the sky.

"We may all die out here," Longworth panted as he held tightly to a doorframe, "No ship can take much of seas like these."

"Yeah, wouldn't that be a bit of strange irony, " Bryson grunted in response, "Getting drowned nearly fifty years before you're born!" Noting Longworth's puzzled look, he added, "Just forget it, it would take too long to explain." The two men pressed on until they reached the cabin where Miss Roosevelt and several other women had taken refuge. Phoebe ran to her father's arms, as he enfolded her in them, there was a flash of light.

_When his vision cleared, Bryson found himself on a country road. In a ditch lay a yellow Chevy Vega hatchback, nearly bent in half by the battered white pickup lying on top of it. A chill ran through him as he realized where he was. The car belonged to his wife Josephine, and she and their daughter were inside after the drunken driver of the pickup had broadsided them after running a stop sign. Hope rising that somehow the fates had given him this chance to save his wife, to prevent her from dying, he ran to the car. But she was dead already, probably killed upon impact. He screamed out his sorrow, before he stroked her hair while softly saying her name as he bid her farewell. He saw she was laying atop Phoebe, realized she had thrown herself there in the last moments in an effort to shield her. From the pickup there was a low moan as the driver came to. Bryson wanted to kill him, exact his revenge for his wife's death, but realized his daughter needed him more. He went around to the passenger side where the door had sprung open. His daughter was alive, though just barely. Checking that she had no potentially crippling injuries, he gently extracted her from the wreck just as an ambulance and other emergency vehicles began rolling up. _

_ "Is she alive?" a Sheriff's deputy was asking as he ran up._

_ "Yes, the other occupant, her mother I think, didn't make it though."_

_ "I'm going to need a statement." Bryson nodded, then he heard the unmistakable rumble of exhaust, saw the approaching headlamps of a classic sixties Corvette coupe. Behind the wheel was himself, the one that belonged in this moment of time. He saw the classic muscle car skid to a stop in a cloud of gravel dust, the other him springing from the driver's seat and running towards the wreck to be intercepted by a law officer. Just before another flash of light took him, he recalled how the cops had reported that an unidentified man had pulled Phoebe from the wreck…_

On Fantasy Island Mr. Roarke read a mainland newspaper whose headline trumpeted the visit by the Russian Czar to New York City. Other papers detailed political maneuverings by the Franco-Prussian Empire, the newest financial project by John J, Astor IV. Of all the people in the world, Roarke realized he was perhaps the only one aware that what he was reading was not supposed to be. In a literal blink of the eye, the world and its history had been changed; The Titanic had not met it's fate in the cold waters of the North Atlantic, The assassins bullet that had lead to the outbreak of the First World War had been kept from being fired, the Bolshevik Revolution crushed before it could be born. The world had known nothing but peace and prosperity for nearly a century. The reason could be found in the book lying amongst the newspapers. Entitled _The Seers_, it was a history of a father and daughter renowned in the early part of the century for their ability to foresee the future, a father and daughter he knew all too well.

"Boss, she's here." Tattoo reported as he entered the office accompanied by a gray haired Phoebe Bryson. Now nearly ninety years in age, she still moved with much of the grace of her younger days. She picked up the book on Roark's desk, flipped it open to the front piece photo of herself and her father in theatrical style robes circa 1918.

"Dad hated that picture." She said as she sat down. "Said it made us look as if we belonged to the Klan."

"You know why I sent for you?" Roarke asked.

"I can guess," she replied tapping the book. "You think this all has to be undone." She leaned forward. "But by what right do you have to ask that? By our foreknowledge we managed to avert the mistakes of the past; we've prevented wars and disasters, given life to thousands who would have died otherwise. My father and Alice lived a happy life together, had a son and two daughters. Would you condemn them to never having been born?" A tear came to her eye. "And what of my mother? I was able to prevent the accident that killed her!"

"It is regrettable." Roarke said softly, "But necessary. Although the world has not suffered any catastrophic upheavals because of your influence in the past, the potential is there, especially with the two versions of yourself that currently exist, but should not, not in the same moment of time."

"And what if trying to set things right, causes the catastrophe you're afraid of?" Phoebe asked. "And have you considered that there is a predestination paradox involved here, has your research revealed to you that my father would not exist if not for our having gone into the past, that, as the song says, he's his own Grandpa?"

Roarke rubbed his eyes. He had indeed overlooked that one detail; that Bryson and his daughter were meant to exist in the modern world. The fact that by some weird twist he was his own grandsire, threw the proverbial wrench into things. But there were always possibilities, or so a friend had told him once, and his mind worked to find one in this situation.

The ringing of the bell and Tattoo's cry of "Da plane, da plane!" snapped him from his reverie. He checked his watch and the schedule on the clipboard on his desk. Nathaniel Bryson, his wife and daughter would be arriving to fulfill his personal fantasy of meeting Theodore Roosevelt's daughter Alice, just as it had been in the other timeline, the proper one. Roarke wondered what consequences they might create if he allowed them to go. It would not be the first time a client's fantasy was cancelled at the last minute, but that would not solve the problem at hand.

Phoebe Bryson paged through the book from Roark's desk. There was a picture of her father having a spirited discussion with the Wright brothers as he gave them the benefit of his late 20th century aeronautical knowledge. Another was of her father and Alice Roosevelt's White House wedding. The next picture she looked at gave her an answer to how to possibly mend the damage she and her father had caused and still exist should her plan succeed. Her father's great grandfather as family history told it, had been left on the doorstep as a baby, and her father had been named for him. It could work, should she be able to implement her scheme at just the right moment. The realization that it could also mean the end of this version of her briefly caused her pause until she gathered her resolve. "Mr. Roarke," she said as she rose from her chair. "I might have the solution to your dilemma, but it's complicated and I may need some help"

_**To Be Continued**_

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